Old Wings
by slack-jawed cheese hugger
Summary: Once upon a time there was a castle. In this castle lived a Man Who Was God and his Angel, and whatever associates of theirs they deigned to house. There was also a man who is part plant, a strange man and his white-haired partner, and a man who regrets.
1. Chapter 1

He had learned to expect it, even after all these years, that it would still hurt. He considered it his duty to ignore it, as if someone out there cared how hard and impassive he was, like it was just another hurdle he had to leap over for the sake of family.

And once upon a time there was a country, and a village in the country, where it was always raining but nobody ever minded because they knew it was just god telling them he was there, to love, to be loved, to pass judgment on their everyday motions. Upon occasion an outsider would complain but they would all shake their heads and leave the poor man to nurse his third pint of beer in silence.

Therein lies the castle.

This castle was made of iron and stone and power and sweat and blood and who-knows-what else holding it all together. The story went that it was a giant that a past hero had turned into stone, hollowed out, and lived in, but those who were a little older grinned and remembered when they had put the last stone atop the structure's head one damp and cool day. The story was just to scare little children; how that was in fact accomplished is anyone's guess.

In any case, the castle currently housed a god and his angel, come to Earth to pass a hand of judgment and control over the land that had been wet for so long it no longer remembered what dry was. The god in question was currently sleeping. Or at least trying to sleep, anyway, for he was thinking about various plans he had yet to put into action.

The god-on-earth shifted on his bed, moving onto his side. His headache was steadily decreasing thanks to whatever it was She had given him for it, and he nearly smiled before catching himself and reprimanding whatever small gland somewhere deep in his brain that was giving him 'happy' because gods did not have 'happy' and he _was _a god.

Yes, yes he was. …No, that was _not _an undercurrent of doubt. Definitely not.

--

Somewhere else in the house the angel yawned.

--

A normal person would have walked up the stairs, the man concluded, but he preferred his own style of subterranean travel to that of _normal_ people. After all, he was anything _but_ normal.

His two giant Venus flytrap jaws that towered far above his head quivered ever-so-slightly in anticipation before becoming still once again, and he heard the man who was god give him permission to enter.

"Reporting in," said the strange man softly, giving an awkward little bow, which tipped his plant-jaws and nearly toppled him over. "The target has left the country and is now seeking employment in a ninja village towards the western border of Fire."

"Very well," croaked the god-who-was-man before clearing his throat. "Thank you again, Zetsu. Dismissed."

With another of those funny little bows the plant man phased through the floor and was gone.

The god-who-was-man sighed and flopped back onto his bed and continued to toss and turn restlessly for the rest of the day (most of his business was conducted at night, not that they could tell, for the ever-present rain-clouds blocked off their view of any sun that might be there.)

--

If his calculations were correct, there had been little or no overspending within the last financial quarter. This was very pleasing, as it meant he had no need to rush about collecting and making money. The dark figure in the dim room shifted a little, then stood up from his chair where he had been working his sums, and stretched. The crack of his joints made him think of the old man most would consider him to be, and he smiled slightly, knowing that even as he lived and stood and breathed he was exceeding all sorts of expectations.

This man ambled over to the bed on which his partner-in-crime (quite literally, in fact) was asleep and snoring, and poked him until he was awake.

"Whuh? We under attack?" mumbled the groggy male, running a hand through his silvery hair as he was apt to do when he was nervous or, indeed, sleepy. (He detested bed-head.)

"No, we're not under attack," said the strange man, quiet and calm. He waited until the other had sat up properly before explaining. "We have no over-expenditures this quarter."

The smaller of the two frowned absently, still mostly asleep. "An' thass why you woke me up?" he drawled lazily.

The strange man said nothing.

"Imma go back to sleep." He lay back down, arranged himself, ran a hand through his hair, and closed his eyes before muttering "Asshole." at his partner and falling asleep.

After a few moments in which he contemplated his own sleepiness, the strange man got up, puttered over to the couch, stole a blanket from his partner who didn't notice, fast asleep as he was, and went to sleep on said piece of (nice, comfy) furniture.


	2. Chapter 2

She usually never slept until at least after midnight but they'd been running for fifty hours straight and her chakra had been drained so she was doing it with pure muscle.

While she had enough incoming chakra left over to heal herself as she went, it was that or the running, and she had to keep up with him or she'd die in that stupid forest with those stupid ninja in that stupid country with its stupid daimyo that they just offed.

Obviously, she didn't have much of a choice.

So when they got back to Ame he had gotten someone to carry her inside and tuck her in bed because she had passed out due to blood loss and headed straight to his office.

They shared everything, but she said she didn't mind.

And it meant that he never really felt alone because most mornings they would pick up the other's cloak from the floor in the incoherent state that came between waking and coffee, the maker of men and civilizations.

Unfortunately, it also meant that he ended up finding out about things she didn't want him knowing.

He frowned, holding up the picture, closer to his eyes, so he could see it better in the dim light of the bioluminescent organisms Zetsu had so kindly introduced to the walls.

Apparently neither Zetsu liked reading.

_Who is that?_ he wondered absently. _Looks like some kid. _He frowned a bit more, trying to make out his headband, and the photograph almost touched his nose.

With a sigh he got up and went looking for one of the torches that lined the halls outside his office, which he found himself using more and more lately. Now he understood why Itachi always looked so frustrated (although you'd never know it if you didn't know him really well; it was almost invisible, but it was there.) If he had to go through this sort of ordeal every time he wanted to see something properly, he'd be angry too.

Finally in the circle of warm light beside the torch, standing about a foot and a half away from it so his hair wouldn't catch on fire (he had to remind himself to get the torches moved a bit up the wall so he wouldn't be running around making a spectacle of himself, already flaming-red hair on fire and needing extinguishing) and stored the thought at the back of his mind.

Finally, he could see the other figure, who he had not recognized, more clearly, and with a start he realized it was that Kinuta chuunin from Otogakure.

_What was his name? _he mused dully, shock blunting his reaction for the moment. _Dazu, right?_

_...Dosu..._ came the sleepy reply of one of his bodies, half-asleep in their holding chamber.

He walked back into his office before someone saw him squinting and ruined his image.

Just in case, he made a note to himself to ask Konan why she was posing in a picture (_laughing,_ no less, which made him twitch a bit with rage before he collected himself) with a Dosu Kinuta from Otogakure no Sato.

He wrote it down this time in case he forgot about it.


	3. Chapter 3

a/n: the first encounter. The zombie twins are unhappy.

If there had ever been a difference then he hadn't noticed, not in the three hundred years he had served himself and himself alone. Sure, he had his obligation to do his rituals, and his sacrifices, but he had little to no interest in anyone else. He didn't like people who molested children, but he didn't mind incest. He didn't like librarians but he _detested_ bankers, which was why he protested so much when he was told by Leader-sama who his partner was going to be.

For example, right now.

He punched the desk, furious. "No you are _not _going to put me with some stuck-up prissy money-obsessed _bastard_!"

"Hidan." The man-who-was-god leveled a stare at him, peering intimidatingly from behind his steepled fingers. "I can, and I _will._ Leave my presence."

"FUCK no! I refuse to work with an idiot like that, Jashin-dammit!" He returned the look with an angry glare of his own, mouth twisted violently in an ugly frown. "I _so _did not fucking sign _up_ for this! Shit!" He twisted away from the impressive old oak desk, shoving both hands into his hair, making incomprehensible sounds as he tried to get a grip on himself. His respect for Leader-sama, nearly as much so as his pride, jabbed him in the side and forced him to calm down and be rational.

Unfortunately said Leader-sama knew that even if he did calm down it would just get worse when he snapped again, and shoved him forcefully out the door and made a quick seal so he couldn't get back inside, leaving him to scream and curse as he wished, just… out of earshot.

---

The pacing stopped. He looked up at the roof above him in earnest curiosity, not cynical at all for once, nervous out of his mind. He didn't want to disappoint them, didn't want to fail, because he just _didn't _fail, on principle. It was really a shame he couldn't be moved to move, though, maybe go look for whoever it was he was supposed to be waiting for, maybe find that super-powerful brat who invited him here.

Unfortunately, his previous few partners had perished in rather convenient 'accidents'. He should have expected the look on that man's face when he came back in alone.

He should have expected that smirk.

His head jerked up when the door slammed open, cracking slightly as it hit the cement walls, and before he knew what he was doing he was in a defensive position, training snapping into place.

The young-looking male occupying the doorway frowned deeply. "C'mon. Leader-sama say's we're workin' together. Get your shit and let's leave."

He should have expected it.

But he didn't.

---

Two and a half weeks later they got back. He noted the stitches on the shorter one's neck, all the way around; the new scars on the elder's abdomen; the dried blood on the three-bladed scythe the younger of the two carried.

And he smiled.

This was going to work out just _perfectly._

He was sure of it.


	4. Chapter 4

a/n: late-night snacks. Something is wrong with their plan.

When he touches down again he will ask her how she is doing, and then, once he has received a satisfactorily fake answer ("I am fine. Do not worry,") he will go back to work.

Well, you couldn't really call it _work_ as much as you could call it a hobby, because when one has risen to this level the routine things one does (giving audiences to his people, catching pesky nuke-nin, approving legal measures, killing traitors- you know, the little things) are more habit than hassle.

Nevertheless, he will check in, and she will fake a total lack of performance anxiety and near-hysteria, and his work will continue. The world will turn; the rain will continue falling; wars will be waged; civilizations will rise and subsequently fall.

This is normal for him, because he is used to pain. Pain is normal. Pain is so normal that he has _become_ pain- that is what they know him as, and that is what he says he is (despite the memories of better, drier, happier times lurking at the back of his mind, waiting for an opportunity to pounce) and maybe, just _maybe,_ if he tells himself that enough, it will suddenly be true.

---

_There is something to be learned from this mess,_ thinks the 300-year-old child hidden in the shadows of his pawn's office. _We have not yet failed._

_But it will happen soon,_ comes the hallucinatory voice of his bestest (**_friendenemybrothercofounder_**). _You can no longer ignore it peeking over the horizon._

He is glad for his lollipop mask, there to hide the ugly frown he wears after that.

---

There is someone in the kitchen.

The scratchy blue one sits straight up in his cot, focused intently on the shuffling he heard, body on auto-pilot.

He grabs his sword on the way out. He can feel it slavering. It is hungry.

He wonders if the intruder ate all the pickles, a wry smile creeping across his face despite the ungodly hour.

Somewhat to his disappointment it is not an infiltrator, but a very thirsty priest.

"Dammit," he swears when he sees the flash of white hair, "I was looking forward to chopping someone up."

"Too bad," he understands from the muffled sound said priest makes around his mouthful of Poptart.

He leans over the shorter man, staring unnervingly at the cabinet he is rifling through. He does not blink normally- instead, a thin filmy lid flicks up over his eye every so often, applying the necessary moisture. "Are there any pickles left?" he murmurs, kicking the priest in the back of his left shin.

The albino swears profusely at him, saying something about sandpaper and skin lotion, and lobs the jar at him. Were it not for his S-class ninja reflexes it would have hit him in the face.

But it doesn't.

He pries it open and picks three or four out successively using two fingers, no longer paying attention as his comrade kicks the cabinet violently closed and waddles off, arms laden with food as if he is some sort of strange tree.

The priest is nearly killed six additional times as he heads back to his room. The last two paranoid criminals spot each other and try to gang up on him, but they stop as soon as they realize who it is and make a tactical retreat, one to his greenhouse, the other to his workshop.

Back in his room he dumps his load of junk food on his bed. A lazy black thread snaps up and curls around his neck experimentally, but when he doesn't resist it backs off, stealing two chocolate bars and a bag of green onion potato chips on its return trip.

"I _told_ you to get something before bed," comes the deep bass of the partner he not-so-affectionately-but-more-like-vengefully calls Patches.

"I wasn't hungry then," he retorts, and is answered with a snort of disbelief. "Yeah, fuck you too, Kuzu."

"I oughta decapitate you for that," the elder chuckles, but doesn't.


End file.
